


Sweet and Cold

by Lithosaurus



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-02-05 00:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lithosaurus/pseuds/Lithosaurus
Summary: You know what they say about revenge.Vignettes of vengeance, revenge, and bloody, bloody justice.





	1. Tabris and Tabris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Canon events of the city elf origin including death and rape. If you haven't played through it, this won't make much sense anyway.

Things snapped in and out of clarity. She was home and could barely focus on the wedding preparations around her then the world snapped into focus and she memorized the faces of the three shems who walked in with cruelly curled lips. Then her eyes wouldn’t stay open with the throbbing pain in the back of her head but a familiar sight caught her eye. She was back in the Bann’s estate, being carried through the halls she saw every workday. Two sets of clanking armor accompanied her.

“Shh, easy.” One of the guards said at her right. “They want someone with less fight. Just- go back to sleep.”

Kallian drooped and waited. Up one more flight of stairs and they were at Vaughn Kendall’s chambers. The door opened and one of the noble boys scooped her up. Kallian saw the faces of the two guards, partly hidden by their helmets. The shem carried her into the room and she saw- her brain didn’t want to see it. Shianni was on the floor and Vaughn Kendalls was on top of her. There was a knife on the belt of the shem who had her.

The world sped up again in a rush of anger and there was blood on her hands. The noble was on the ground. The knife was in his chest, his belly, his arms as he tried to defend himself. It stuck and broke in his rib. Kallian’s scalp and neck burst into pain. She scrabbled for the hand that had yanked her off the dead shem. Fingers, delicate fingers. What had Mama said about fingers? They broke easily in her hand. His neck was only a bit harder to snap. Like a chicken or a stray dog for the soup.

“Stop! Stop or she’s dead.” Focus was back. Focus was back and showed her every detail of the scene. Kendalls had Shianni upright with a knife to her throat. Her eyes were red and her lips were bitten. Blood was on her fingernails and knuckles. Kendalls’ knife was held too tight and was ornamental more than utilitarian. His trousers were unbelted and threatening to fall back down. There was a smear of blood on his bare hip.

She saw Kendalls’ scattered bottles of beer and Shianni’s firm set jaw. She saw he cousin move before it started. Kendalls’ elbow went sideways, Shianni’s head cut the opposite direction, her knees went limp, and she was on the ground, safe from the knife.

Kallian leapt forward in a fog of rage. Every bit of training her mother had ever given her went out the window. She didn’t care that Kendalls was bigger, stronger, armed, and powerful. He had her cousin’s blood on him. She pinned his right arm with her knee and got in two good hits before he kicked her off. He was towering over her with a knife in his hand, coming closer. Then-

A halo of pottery surrounded his head and he collapsed. Shianni. A vase that probably could have been pawned for a month of food was on the ground in pieces. Kendalls’ knife was in his own throat before the confusion left his face.

There was blood on her hands. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere, but far more of it was Vaughn Kendalls’ than hers or Shianni’s.


	2. Howe the Traitor Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: blood and death, kinda to be expected

It’d been a year since Elissa Cousland had decided that she would kill Rendon Howe. A year full of darkspawn and pain and adventures she could never have imagined when planning her life as a bann. It’d been a year and she had felt a lot of things in that year.

After the numb focus of battle died, when Duncan was dragging her away from Highever, she burned  so hot she could hardly see. She hated Howe, Duncan, Father for trusting too much, even her loyal hound, Stormy. The question of why Howe would betray her family smoldered. She burned and raged until she burned out.

She felt that fire again when Howe stood in front of her. Zevran’s assassination orders hadn’t brought it back. Hearing of Howe’s lies to the Landsmeet hadn’t brought it back. But seeing Howe in the bowels of the dungeons…

The fight was bloody and dangerous. They all were but she felt it more. She burned with every arrow she loosed, every attack she dodged, it was through a haze of rage and grief. Finally, the last opponent fell and the opportunity she had wanted for a year was at hand.

Elissa crossed the room with an arrow notched. Howe’s armored form was crumpled on the ground. She kicked him over with one foot and planted her boot on his chest. She drew the bowstring to her cheek.

“I want answers, Howe!” She snarled but-

Howe was a self-righteous snake of a man. He’d never admit his wrongs. He would never apologize. His pride, his arrogance, his sense that he was infallibly in the right; all this kept him from her resolution but mainly it was impossible because he was dead.

Arl Rendon Howe (never Teryn) was dead at her feet. Elissa stared down at him on the filthy floor. There was blood on his hands and piss leaking from the skirt of his armor. There was no final damnation of her house or insistance how he would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for her. He was just dead.

Elissa felt empty. Her rage was gone but it wasn't burned out, just snuffed out of existence. Stormy pushed his head under her hand. There was blood matting the fur around his mouth and Howe’s throat was torn to shreds. She took a cloth from her belt and wiped away the grime from his greying muzzle.

“Good dog, Stormy.” She whispered into his neck. “You’re such a very, very good boy.”

Stormy licked her ear. Elissa Cousland stood and walked away from Rendon Howe’s corpse and towards her duty to her country.


	3. Loyal Leske

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: One vaguely transphobic line and a whole lot of blood.

Orzammar was what Nat remembered but all the more so. They didn’t know if it was because their absence made everything seem clearer or if the city really had changed in the last months but every step was a mix of dissonance and déjà vu.

The castes were still nug-humpers who wanted to gargled their own ancestors’ balls but now they had to actually speak to Nat with all that disgust in their voice. Rica was still their sister who got all the looks in the family but now she was living in the royal palace. The Darkspawn were still a constant threat but now they were listening to orders from an Archedemon. And Leske…

Leske was still the duster they had grown up grifting with but now he was facing it alone and worse off for the change. Nat had wanted to believe their old friend had stayed the same, that they could get back the few good things that had existed in Dust Town but the world kept turning, no matter what they did.

Soon as Leske gave up the information about how to find Jarvia, they suspected. They’d have to be thick as bronto shit not to. Nothing came for free in Dust Town, not from your oldest friend, and especially not when your oldest friend knew you had surfacer gold on you. But they wanted to believe that Leske was on their side.

He wasn’t.

Leske had set up an ambush in what had once been Nat’s own home. Symbolic, really, that the place that had once been the closest they’d get to safe was where Leske had chosen to end their friendship. Part of them- a big part- wanted it all to be a ruse or a misunderstanding but pessimism was a life skill in Dust Town. Still, it didn’t prepare Nat to see Leske at Jarvia’s shoulder, hearing about how he set up their death for a scrap off her table.

“Come on, Salroka.” Leske at least had the decency to look like he felt bad. “You were gone and there weren’t that many options.”

“You’ve got an option now.” Nat pointed out. “We killed Beraht…”

Jarvia laughed humorlessly. “Don’t push your luck, duster. Let’s kill the freak, Leske.”

Nat could see the split second calculations in his eyes, gaze going from Nat to Jarvia to the finely armored and full cheeked humans behind them to Jarvia’s tough-as-shoe-leather dusters. It was an impossible choice, but dusters made impossible choices every day.

Leske drew his daggers and charged toward Nat. It hurt just for second, then all that hurt burned away in anger and the rush of battle. It was never a good idea to get hurt in a fight.

Leliana’s first arrow hit Leske in the neck before he took two steps. Her second bounced off his shoulder guard and Leske fell to the dusty stone floor with a hand at his neck. Jarvia fell by Nat’s own hand, at least there was that. Taking down Beraht, the toad who had treated their sister like a prize bronto he wanted to fuck, felt good but this felt better. This was the duster who took Leske.

When the last of the carta was dead on the floor, Nat went back to Leske. They knelt and rolled them over. Leske jerked and the hand not attempting to staunch his coming death scrabbled for a blade.

“Shoulda said yes, salroka.” Nat tried to smile as they said it.

Leske grimaced back and laughed wetly. He tried to say something but blood coated his teeth. Nat pressed their hands to the arrow. Leske coughed and the spray of blood landed on Nat’s shiny surfacer armor. It only lasted a few more seconds, each one felt achingly long but far too short. When it ended, Nat closed Leske’s eyes, removed the arrow to return to Leliana, and dropped him. There was no use treating the body like anything but mushroom crop, the Stone didn’t have room for casteless. The only place they got remembered was in the memories of other dusters.

Leske would always be in Nat’s memory.


	4. Darkspawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: dead siblings

The ogre seemed to appear out of the gloom without the slightest warning and suddenly Hawke wasn’t lost in the Deep Roads. A long blade shone in the meagre light and swung towards the darkspawn. Hawke could feel the bowstring in his fingers and the cold of the Deep Roads sunk into his joints but he wasn’t there.

The burning hills of Lothering stunk like ash and rotting flesh. A blast of fire hit the ogre’s shoulder and it spun to roar at Bethany. Carver ducked around its hit and sliced at its hamstring. The beast’s back foot kicked out backwards and flung Carver backwards. It picked up his brother like a rag doll and shook him. It was as just like he remembered it.

“Hawke!” Varric roared in his ear and two crossbow bolts thudded into the ogre’s midsection, sending it stumbling to its knees.

He blinked and took a shaky step forward. Then another, and two more in quick procession. He leapt, placed a foot on the ogre’s back and launched himself level with the ogre’s head. His first arrow punched straight through it’s neck and the second hit its spine. The ogre fell to the ground and twitched.

Fenris- not Carver- wriggled free, trying to avoid the blood as much as possible and gave a simple thanks. When they next bedded down, Anders took first watch, not Bethany because she was safe in Kirkwall. Hawke lay on the hard ground, wrapped his coat around himself and tried to get the images out of his mind. Glowing fungus made the whole world a mess of blue-ish shadows with half seen images. Next to him, he saw a shaggy head with a greatsword within reach. Fenris, not Carver. His brother was dead. His little brother, who he had taught how to milk a cow and skip stones. The grief that had followed him for a year and half lifted its head but it was weaker than it ever had been before. Next to him was a shaggy head, snoring slightly because Fenris was alive.

He had saved Fenris from the ogre, just like he had tried in so many dreams since that day. Carver was gone but Hawke wasn’t. Bethany wasn’t. Fenris wasn’t. He could never save his brother but he could save many more.

“Goodbye, Carver.” Hawke whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Hawke?” Fenris asked groggily.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.”

Hawke inched closer and Fenris pushed back into the warmth offered. It was still cold in the Deep Roads. They were still tired and lost and maybe going to die but he had killed one more ogre today, and that might just be enough.


	5. The Brothers Tethras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: dead family, references to suicide, and usage of first person POV.

“So I lied to the Seeker, so what? She called me on it didn’t she? The number one rule is to know your audience. The Seeker wanted a pared down version of the Champion so I pared and said it was the whole truth. I gave her what she wanted but there’s a line, you know? I told her about Hawke watching their first sibling die and take an accusation that it was their fault. I didn’t tell her about how a night at the Hanged Man could start with a few jokes about growing up dodging Templars could end up with Hawke drunk in my suite and slurring out stories Leandra playing child against child like the shrewd politician her own parents raised her to be.

I told the Seeker about Quentin the bloodmage’s twisted attempt at curing death. I didn’t tell her about the nightmares of a missing bedmate and the grief over that. I didn’t tell her about Hawke staying in the Amell estate, feet from Leandra’s empty room and hardly eating for months . I didn’t tell her about Anders’ talk of brain sickness and of mages who went quiet and then went _very_  quiet, whether that be through Tranquility, possession, or a knotted bedsheet.

There are some things you just don’t talk about, even after years and with a blade to your throat. They wouldn’t be the stories for me to tell and they werent the stories the Seeker was looking for.

So I lied to the Seeker. I lied about a lot of things including Bartrand. The thing is, I wanted my first version to be true. I wanted a conclusion and satisfaction. I wanted to look my brother in the eye, kick his teeth in for leaving me in the Deep Roads when we both made the same promise to Mama, and then get over it like everything else we had gotten over. I wanted an answer. What I got was Red Lyrium.

Bartrand’s story should have been my revenge. It should have had revenge, restitution, a conclusion, whatever. It just left me without my big brother and a bitter taste to be drug back up by some holy idiot.

So I lied to the Seeker. Whatever. It worked out in the end. Didn’t it?”

“Didn’t it.” Varric sighed and put down his quill. The ink drying on his parchment looked back up at him. He placed it in the growing pile of drafts next to his desk. Maybe those weren’t the right words. He’d write a better ending later.


	6. Howe the Son Succeeded

For a moment, Elissa thought the dead had returned. In the smoky torchlight of the jail, it was easy to see Thomas Howe. But it wasn’t her one-time betrothed, it was the sullen older brother. Thomas was dead, Rendon was dead, and Delilah was no where to be found but Nathaniel was alive. She wondered which family had fared better.

“Come to gloat, Cousland?”  Nathaniel sneered. “Come to remind me that my family is in shambles while you’re married to the king?”

She hadn’t had a chance to kill Rendon herself. He was close enough in appearance to his father. She could do it. She could order the guards to drag him out to the courtyard and spill a little bit more blood tonight. She was the Queen and his father had betrayed Ferelden. Oren hadn’t been spared and he was seven, why should Rendon’s heir?

Because he was the family black sheep. Nathaniel had been sent away to the Free Marches years ago. Was he even in Ferelden during the war? Elissa sighed and ordered her men to release him.

He snarled and called her an idiot. She wondered if he was right. A week later Nathaniel Howe returned. Oghren called her an idiot for not shooting him in the throat and moving on. But she didn’t think so. There had been a core of honor that had bonded her father and his. Rendon Howe had been a hero once. She couldn’t help but see Nathaniel’s father in him. Maybe he had that part of his father.

When she rode back to Denerim and the throne and Alistair, she left two Warden Constables at the Vigil. One; a dwarven warrior with fresh start, a son named Elias, and not a drop of alcohol on his lips. The other; a soft-spoken human with his grandfather’s bow and the honor of House Howe riding on his shoulders.


End file.
